


teeth-price

by fyborg23



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Break Up, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01, break in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 13:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13614375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: Officers were the ones in the commercials, even the one with the fire-breathing demon and the ceremonial sabre. Officers got more leverage,after.Billy looked like an officer.Frank Castle didn't look like an officer.





	teeth-price

**Author's Note:**

> popping into my dms, suggesting that i watch 'the punisher', because 'it's in your wheelhouse!'? you know who you are, bb.

The first thing Billy got with his sign-up bonus was a nicer smile.

A cap for his chipped eyetooth, sealant, porcelain fillings. Even teeth whitening, just for the hell of it, when the hygienist leaned over his chair and gave him the spiel, fifty-dollars-off-high-quality, pointing out the fluoride stains on his teeth with her sharp pick, scraping over the enamel enough to make Billy curl his hands around the chair arms.

Whiteness made up for his crooked lower teeth. Billy learned when he was a kid how to smile just right to keep his crookedness hidden, still smiled that way because big smiles were suspicious on grown men.

Blew half of his sign-up bonus that way.

Everyone talked about money in the barracks. Who pissed it away on exes and their brats, and which selfish prick never bought a round whenever some of the guys tried to get together in civvy life because they thought they’d like each other when no one was shooting at them. Talked about what they did with the money they got offered to put limb and/or life on the line, bitched about having to re-up for more money. Dangerous assignments paid more.

No marine would breathe a word about needing a dangerous assignment for the money. Nah. All bullshit about selection, prestige, _honor_. Soft words to cover the hard bitchy reality. Only as soft as marines ever get, and Billy never got that soft. Simple: officers made more money.

Officers were college kids. Officers looked the part even if they came from fuck-ass nowhere and only got in on some degree mill paper. Officers were the ones in the commercials, even the one with the fire-breathing demon and the ceremonial sabre. Officers got more leverage, _after_.

Billy looked like an officer.

Frank Castle didn’t look like an officer. He looked like a marine, silver bars on his collar less impressive than his nose and his willingness to kill for country and flag. A marine who came from a nice enough family, had a nice enough family, just doing his duty, _sir_. Cut his hair like a marine. Shot like a marine. Combat-jacked like a marine.

Sucked cock just like a marine.

Ran home to his wife and two-point-five children like a marine. Pretended to be untouchable, until he wasn’t, hands on Billy’s shoulder and never in his hair. Maria made Frank smile. Maria gave Frank _gifts_ , some high school sweetheart bullshit like Billy fucking her for their 10th, clutching at his shoulders like she had something to prove, choking around Frank’s cock after Billy went soft, Frank’s eyes unblinking, Maria’s cunt wet with Billy’s come. Frank had flicked his eyes up at Billy before he sucked Maria clean, the same way he looked at him before sweeping a building clean.

The scabs from Billy curling his nails against his palms took a full month to heal.

War was war. No matter how Agent Orange tried to pretty it up, how men and women in expensive suits justified, blessed, crowed-- war took and takes and will take, end of fucking story. Billy came out of a war richer, with the sort of control that comes with marching three paces behind those expensive suits.

Frank?

For a man who had nothing, he was a hellva gift giver. No old marine had Billy’s new face.

Prison medicine is prison medicine. Billy’s been patched up like a goddamn jigsaw puzzle. He’s been told his mind is like a jigsaw too. Showing his scorn at _that_ is a waste of pain. His face keeps catching fire underneath the shiny red ridges bracing his skin, ragged nerves firing like dropped AK-47s. Running his tongue over what’s left of his teeth is like watching the aftermath of a drone strike. He constantly tastes the bitter iron of blood. He keeps counting his teeth one-two-less-than thirty-two.

The first three thousand dollars he ever made are gone with those teeth. Does the rich man miss the first dollar he had framed? Does Billy remember the pretty speech fucking Frank gave him? Why would he _want_ to? Frank never said much. Highly-trained killers don’t have to. They can do. Take what they want. Frank wanted Billy to live shamed.

Shame is taught. Frank’s got a shame bukkake. And Billy, being who he is–

He smiles despite the pain.

Getting out of prison is more tedious than reading the first half of _Count of Monte Christo_. Both get done. The system is rotten, rotted, rotting and Frank only took his face. Not his training. Skills. Billy slips free after. He skips to the second half of the book. His new face means he’s still a wanted man.

Billy looks around the shithole Frank’s renting.

At least it’s not on Staten Island.

New York never sleeps, but 0300 is the quietest it gets. They did ops at this time of night, where the human body is at its lowest point, deep in REM, cold and paralyzed. Easier to kill people when they’re almost dead.

Billy presses his lips in a smile that none of them can see, snapping his switch blade open. His chest press against the knives strapped to his vest as he takes in Frank breathing, snoring badly through parted lips and sweating onto the sheets. Frank sleeps shirtless. He always ran hot.

The bathroom light’s on, door ajar and limning the bed with shitty fluorescent. Frank jerks awake at the stillness, breath caught somewhere between his throat and nose, freezes when his eyes fix on the black density of Billy. A gun barrel flashes.

Billy dodges, rolls, rakes the dresser down to make Frank miss him again. The crash makes the floorboards jump. Billy moves in close enough to smell Frank’s breath, his blade jammed against his right collarbone–

He yanks it out. Blood, dark, oozes from the wound. Frank’s jaw muscle jumps, and he howls, bleeding, as he tries to get his gun up, shoots at Billy’s thigh. Billy shouts, hurls the still-hot muzzle out of Frank’s hand, stabs again at Frank. The muscles in his leg scream when Frank kicks his foot out, someone stepping in drops of blood and _squeaking_ across the floor.

Frank yanks him against a wall. Drywall gives under their weight, an ugly dent like Billy’s face. Billy grits his teeth, his knee smashing against Frank’s bare thigh. He snarls, jams them both deeper into the dent, making Billy laugh, “This how you fuck, Castle?”

“Russo,” Frank breathes, his ears jerking at his voice, his hands pressing against the arteries and veins in Billy’s neck, tracing his wind pipe with a thumb. Billy gasps, raking Frank’s ribs with his knife, the tip pushing a hole, the easy give of skin just enough for him to feel through the knife hilt. He still has air. Hard to taunt Frank about not choking him right; those paws are massive and those eyes are just taking in his new face.

So he stabs him again, doesn’t sink in as deep as he wants. Frank grunts, punches him right underneath the ribs. _That_ knocks the air out of him, makes Billy fall to his knees. He loses the knife, Frank’s fingers grinding against his wrist bones, and the knife skitters across the wooden floor.

Frank yanks Billy to the bathroom by his prison-long hair. Billy scrambles, his hand mashing against Frank’s left knee. It doesn’t buckle. Frank hauls him across the threshold like he probably did to Maria, and the sneer on Billy’s face makes it easier for him to see himself in the mirror.

Frank could never hide those emotions in his eyes. Billy could just taste that Catholic guilt Frank’s trying to whip up, like he didn’t kill north of thirty-seven people since they came to this _after_. His sneer turns into a smile that reaches his eyes. It makes Frank swallow, his blood shiny in this clean bathroom with its bullshit subway tiles. Billy leans his head back, into Frank’s grip, “Thanks for the face.”

Yeah, Billy’s hard in his jeans, his dick pressing against the edge of the sink. Fighting and fucking are just sides of the same square, and he’s plastered against Frank, raw and animal and streaked in dark blood rather than the vivid brightness of arterial breaches, chemicals pulsing throughout his body. He spent most of his Kandahar tour stripping his dick raw after ops, the smell of blood sticking in his nose, and teaching Frank how to suck cock, making him huff and moan against his pubes the same way Frank’s huffing in his ears right now.

Frank’s eyes betray him, flicking down in the mirror and then up to the spaces where most of Billy’s teeth used to be, disgust and arousal curdling on those lips. Hangover of good memories. Billy licks at a cut on his mouth, “Do you only get it up for pretty holes?”

“Fuck you,” he hisses, still holding Billy, his knuckles raw and his dick pressing against Billy’s ass. Billy leans against Frank’s chest, getting blood on the back of his shirt, “That night when I fucked Ma–”

The words jam on Frank’s fingers, his middle finger hooking inside Billy’s jaw, creaking against the healed fracture he put there. " _Don’t._ "

Frank’s never predictable. Impulsive. Means he can destroy rent-a-soldiers and most of Hell’s Kitchen without getting killed. Means he fucked Billy’s face up without even thinking too hard. Means Billy can relax around the fingers in his mouth and sigh as he carefully rubs his hard-on against the edge of the sink.

Frank didn’t take his _body_. Billy shudders, rocking between the counter and Frank, his blood fizzling, and the fingers in his mouth soften before they slip out with a _snik_. Frank’s eyes glint at him in the silver backing of the mirror, and Billy pushes down his pants with one hand. Squeezes himself. He doesn’t have to moan because Frank does it for him.

Billy doesn’t close his eyes when Frank traces his scars almost like they didn’t just try to kill each other. _Almost_. Frank leans up-- just an inch less than Billy-- his lips brushing on the lunar landscape of Billy’s cheek, his nostrils flared out, shaking from all of those chemicals. Billy snarls, “Fuck me or don’t.”

Frank’s lip curls. He spits in his hand, rubs his fingers in between Billy’s cleft, “Do you cry over not being pretty?” worming a finger against the tight curl of his asshole. Getting pushed open _burns_ , every bit of Billy’s insides clinging to Frank’s hand, the clutch of Frank’s fingers spreading him meaning he’ll bruise if he survives, which makes it easier to taunt, to stab again, “Close your eyes and think of the old me. Like you did with Mar–”

Billy’s hips crash against the edge of the sink, a bar of hot pain, howling in his throat. Frank slings a chokehold across his neck, growling, almost a beat away from smashing both of them _through_ the sink.

The mirror catches both of their eyes, flashes the overhead light into their retinas. There’s a sick relief when Frank can work his dick in, too dry and nowhere near enough, Billy’s ass clutching around _it_. One of them should close their eyes, like they did towards the end of that tour, but the mirror means Billy’s got to see Frank’s fireplug nose, the ugly molted bruises coming up around his neck.

Nothing easier than taking Frank’s snarl of “Fuck you” in his ears, that dick working in like it hurts _him_ instead of Billy. Everything on Frank matches, dick to nose, and only thing on Billy that doesn’t match is his face. Even Billy can appreciate the pink jump of his own dick, the disgusted grunt when Frank realizes Billy’s admiring the sights–

Billy laughs through his teeth, “Look at what you did, Franky, all of that blood on your hands,” his fingers smearing against sticky blood outlining the muscles in Frank’s forearm. Frank keeps fucking, working his hips in that rough see-saw motion that always made Billy’s asshole twinge, panting hard, squeezing tighter around Billy’s neck, making him taste blood, phlegm, unconsciousness. Frank shakes against Billy, grunting before he comes, dirty and ashamed.

Does Billy come? Does it matter when Frank pries himself off him like a fat leech?

Frank slides down the tiled wall, smearing the whiteness with blood, his chest heaving like after a kill, his eyes confused and scared and unmoving. Billy would have twitched an eyebrow. Would given him the same speech Frank gave him while his face was getting destroyed, had he remembered.

Instead, Billy worms his fingers into the gash on Frank’s shoulder, blood welling up around his nails, hot and gritty, “I’m going to enjoy killing you. Eventually.”

Savors the flash of dark rage Frank keeps around him like the goddamn flag, and slams him back against the tile.

He leaves Frank looking at the mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> (the fire-breathing demon was a real us marines commercial and haunts youtube.)


End file.
